


I'm willing, he's able

by leiascully



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Black Character(s), Character(s) of Color, Coming Out, Family Drama, Family Secrets, First Love, First Time, Latinx Character(s), Multi, Native American Character(s), Nonbinary Character, Pansexual Character, Social Justice, Social Media
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 13:50:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9126508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: John Laurens goes to Georgetown, just like his father wants him to do.  He meets Alexander Hamilton - not exactly something his father wants him to do.





	1. Freshman Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Characterization based mostly (and roughly) on the musical, updated for the modern era. This story is a work in progress. I have tried to be as faithful as possible to LMM's vision of recasting our history with characters of color. All errors are my own.  
> Disclaimer: _Hamilton_ and all related characters are the property of Lin-Manuel Miranda. This is a work of fiction that bears no resemblance to and claims no knowledge of the people about whom it is written. No infringement is intended and no profit is made from this work.

John is packing - Georgetown freshman FAQ pulled up in his email, his favorite Spotify playlist on the speakers - when his father comes in.

"Jennifer was saying I should go with you up to campus," he says, because of course he needs John to know that he didn't come up with this idea by himself. It's not the kind of thing men would think of, taking their oldest sons to college out of state. Men don't bother about these things. But their girlfriends can have those sorts of notions, and well, what man would want to disappoint a pretty lady?

"I don't mind driving myself, sir," John tells him.

"Don't be ridiculous, Jacky," his father says, dangling the keys. "The Laurens boys go to Washington. Maybe we'll take a tour of the White House - you can both get a little preview of what it'll be like to live there one day. What do you say?"

The answer is never no. John smiles, and he knows it looks real. He's practiced in the mirror for years. "Sure, Pop. Sounds great."

"Great," his father echoes, already turning to leave. "I'll go and make arrangements for your brother and me to fly home. That way you'll still have the car."

"I appreciate that, sir," John says, but his father is gone, clattering down the stairs and calling for Jennifer, saying something about planning a girls' day out for her and John's sisters. John sits on the edge of his bed and takes a deep breath. He's lucky there wasn't another sermon about how he ought to have gone to the University of South Carolina instead, been a Gamecock instead of a Hoya, pledged his life to a fraternity.

"These are the ways that men form connections," his father has said more times than John can count. "You'll thank me later, Jacky, when you're the one handing out the favors."

John can't tell his father that isn't the life he wants. He's never wanted to be part of the world of smug middle-aged white men making decisions in back rooms. There's no justice in that world. He doesn't like cigars or twenty-year-old Scotch. He doesn't think that affirmative action rigs the system against the deserving scions of lesser white families. He doesn't believe in the gay agenda or slippery slopes or that raising the minimum wage would ruin America. There is no place for him in this family. He bites his tongue at the dinner table these days and saves his passion for the internet and NHS service projects and essays and his group texts. His father doesn't want his boys changing the world, only upholding the traditions he's helped put in place, and John can't stomach the status quo. 

It wasn't always this way. His father used to sit with him and hear him out. But they're past that sort of youthful indulgence, John thinks, with his mother and his middle brother both at rest in the family plot in the cemetery. It's time to be a man: start dating the eligible daughters his parents keep inviting to dinner, register as a Republican instead of an independent, start memorizing the pat rebuttals used by generations in the face of the notion that their way of life perpetuates inequalities. 

He's got to finish packing. There's only so much he can take with him, and some things he's happy to leave behind. And he's lucky, he knows, to have this opportunity. He's lucky to have the resources to put some space between himself and his father's expectations, even if those resources are all under his father's name. Seven more years at the most and he'll be free. Never mind that that represents more than a third of his life to date. Seven more years is a bargain to trade away in return for what he'll be getting. It's no worse a term than indentured servants faced, before the Revolution, or so he learned in history, and the accommodations are more luxurious. That makes it worse, in some way. He knows he shouldn't complain. He has had an easy life, even if it's at odds with the one he wants to live.

He sorts through his things, puts a last few items in the bins and suitcases. He doesn't need all of his sketchbooks, but he throws a couple of them into his backpack, along with some charcoal and a set of watercolor pencils. There's another disappointment: he's always been more interested in art than in football, even when he was named to the varsity team. Even when he got a small scholarship from a local graphic design firm, his father wasn't impressed. "Focus, Jacky, eyes on the prize," his father said. "Doodling doesn't win campaigns."

His bags are stacked up next to his door like poorly-fitting tetris pieces. He'll take them out to his car early in the morning, the hybrid SUV that was a compromise between him and his father. And then the three of them will drive to DC, haul his things to his dorm room, and shake hands with his roommate. Manly things, done in manly ways. No heartfelt goodbyes with his sisters before he leaves. No tears when he drives his father and Hank to the airport afterward. He can see it already. 

\+ + + + 

It all comes to pass just as he imagined, except that after he's delivered his father and Hank to the airport, he puts his head down on the steering wheel. He's dizzy. There's a lightness he hasn't felt in years. He drives back to campus, singing as loud as he can to whatever's on the radio, flipping through the new channels. He gets dinner in the dining hall with someone from high school and then makes his excuses and wanders the campus, taking deep breaths of the air. He knows he's in the city but it feels green and fresh here, under the big trees. 

He loves it. He goes back to the dorm for his sketchbook, and then sits on the grass, trying to capture the way the evening light slants through the leaves and across the facades of the buildings. People walk past in pairs or groups, chatting comfortably. The dorm, when he gives up on sketching the twilight campus to save his purple and blue pencils, is much fuller than it was in the morning, bright and full of life. There are signs and posters up on the bulletin boards. He takes pictures of a couple that advertise activist groups and social justice efforts. "All are welcome!!!" the signs proclaim, and he believes it. John bounds up the stairs to his room, energized. Here he is, making his own choices. There was always some sort of desperate edge to his passion before. Now he feels peaceful, prepared, like settling into line with his teammates the moment before the play is called. It's all clear in his mind. He's ready. 

John sleeps well for the first time in months, despite the frantic rattling of his roommate Sam's keyboard as he types furiously into the night. The morning dawns bright and he's up early without his alarm, going for a run along the river. Everything is fascinating, from the cereal dispensers in the cafeteria to the detailed orientation. He soaks it all in. Most of his classmates' parents are with them, including a couple of people he knows from home. His high school acquaintances' mothers fuss over him and tell him they'll be happy to take him out to lunch, but he refuses politely, smiling and saying he'd better get used to the food anyway. 

"All right, honey, if that's how you feel about it," say the mothers dubiously, patting him on the shoulder.

He eats by himself, nose-deep in one of the textbooks he got from the bookstore, and finds a kind of peace in it. Ethics is a required core course, but he thinks he'll enjoy it. He's got so much to learn. 

\+ + + + 

John pores over the course catalogue after orientation, in the pause before anything actually starts. He's got a bunch of credits from taking AP classes, which means he can count toward his required courses. He fills in a schedule with the classes he still has to take for his major. He can graduate with his poli sci degree in three years, if he doubles up after freshman year, which shaves a whole year off his original plan. Now all he has to do is find internships or a study abroad program in the summer so that he looks well-rounded and experienced, go to law school (a condition of his father paying for his education), and then he can go into some kind of social justice work, domestic or international. He's interested in the law so far as he can use it to make the world a better place. That's not what his father wants. Money should be used to make more money, according to Henry Laurens, but that doesn't look like justice to John. He'll look like he's playing by his father's rules for now, but all bets are off as soon as he can tell his father goodbye. 

He's not planning to join a fraternity, much to his father's disappointment. He's given up the sports he played in high school, which he doesn't have time for anyway if he wants to graduate early. He might go to a game once in a while if he can. He's lucky enough that he doesn't have to work, but he's keeping an eye on the local law offices in case they need anyone to help in the office, just in case. He's not planning to date - he's never really found anyone who caught his interest anyway, despite a few clumsy experimentations with a few girls at parties, and once, a hasty kiss from a boy at an Art Club party. Maybe it's him. Maybe it's them. Maybe it's some combination thereof, and he just hasn't found the right catalyst yet to spark whatever reaction he can feel fizzing somewhere deep in his psyche. Anyway, not dating will save time. He's got other ways to spend those hours than staring deep into someone's eyes or fumbling with someone's clothes. 

John has everything charted out in a haphazard sort of way, like the rough outlines he used to draw before he would fill in the details of faces or textures. "Once you've got something on paper, you're almost there," his art teacher would say. He feels good about his schedule of courses for the next three years, plotted by semester in the back of one of his notebooks. It'll be grueling, but he can make it happen. There isn't much room for socializing, but he doesn't need anyone. He's learned to be alone in his family's oversized home. He isn't here to make friends.

And then, the very first day in U.S. Political Systems, the professor is lecturing, and one of the other freshmen raises his hand. 

"Yes?" the professor says in a voice that manages to be both dry and surprised.

Everyone turns in their seats to focus on the disruption. 

"Yeah, hi, Alexander Hamilton," says the owner of the hand, leaning forward in his chair. "I don't see a lot about American economic systems in the syllabus. Given that the strength of our economy is literally one of the pillars of the United States' international exceptionalism, shouldn't we spend more than an hour discussing our financial system and our economic policies?"

The professor blinks. "You'll have plenty of opportunities to discuss the material during class and in your required postings on Blackboard, Mister Hamilton."

"Sure," Alexander says airily, waving a hand, "but if we're required to understand the nuances of the political systems that support our government, would it not behoove us to make the economy a focus of the course? Everybody knows that Wall Street has a hell of a lot more influence and motivation at this point than Congress, pardon my French."

Their classmates murmur, mostly about the fact that someone their age has used the word "behoove" in what seems to be an unironic way.

"I'm sure you'll find the exploration of the topic satisfactory," the professor says. "Moving on."

Alexander opens his mouth again, but the TA - Aaron something, he introduced himself at the beginning of class - glares daggers at him and Alexander subsides. He sits back in his chair, puts his chin on his hand, and beams at Aaron. Jack can practically hear his grandmother cooing, "That Hamilton boy, butter wouldn't melt in his mouth." He can see the sour twist to her lips, too. "Watch out for that one, Jacky boy." 

He'll watch that one, anyway. If years of his father's political ambitions for his sons have taught John anything, it's how to pick a winner. Alexander - irrepressible, irresistible, and supremely confident - has all the hallmarks of a future champion. He's got light brown skin that doesn't look like the result of tanning, artfully tousled dark wavy hair, and improbably blue eyes that John can't help but notice, even across the room. He's going to look amazing on campaign posters some day. 

"Who says something like that on the first day of class?" says the girl next to John, talking to her friend.

"A real asshole," her friend tells her. 

John smiles to himself. That too, he thinks, even though Alexander's question sounded earnest. Nice guys don't interrupt class to ask the professor to revise the syllabus. But nice guys don't finish first in politics anyway. Alexander the asshole will fight his way to the top in exactly the way John, with his diplomatic manners, has never been able to, much to his father's dismay. 

Well. Assholes with aspirations still need running mates. He'll have to take some time to get to know this guy at some point, he thinks, but that's his father's voice whispering behind his own thoughts. John shakes his head and goes back to his syllabus, making notes in the margins. He doesn't have time to get involved with a whirlwind like Alexander Hamilton. 

Still, before the class is over, he's doodled a little caricature of Alexander's face on the blank edge of his syllabus. He adds a speech bubble that says, "It's the economy, stupid!" and smiles to himself as he packs up his things to leave. He'll definitely have something to look forward to three days a week.

\+ + + + 

Two weeks in, it feels like John's plan is good. He's got room in his three-year schedule for an art class, since he tested into intermediate French. He goes out just enough to keep up appearances, and then begs off after half an hour or so, saying he needs to study. Sam, his roommate, is always out shouting about something, so his room is a good place to get work done, and when Sam's in, John has a corner in the library that's usually not taken. If the library's full, he reads on the treadmill at the gym or conjugates irregular conditional verbs between sets. He gets his work done and his papers turned in, with enough time leftover to help Black Lives Matter chalk the campus with slogans and to design new posters for the local Big Brothers/Big Sisters program. 

Honestly, it's nice to find that he's truly passionate about these causes. He spent every free moment in high school in social justice-focused clubs or in sports, because he didn't want to spend a lot of time at home. Now that he's not avoiding anything, he's still throwing his heart and soul into dismantling the systems that perpetuate the injustices his ancestors committed. Some small part of him was afraid that he wouldn't care enough to continue the work, once it wasn't an excuse, but the righteous energy is incredible, even though he mostly stays in the back of the rooms and listens and tries not to get in the way. He's seen other allies try to take over; he doesn't want to be one of those people. He even goes to a game or two, so he can text his father about how much fun he's having and how many people he's meeting. 

"Good 4 u," his father texts back. "Connections!!!"

John doesn't bother to respond to that.

In October, he goes to a party at the invitation of his art class buddy. Turns out that sitting next to someone during every figure drawing class has created a real bond; each of them has caught the other sizing up the nude models. It's not the way John thought he would make friends, but he likes Luz a lot. They're the first non-binary person he's ever known off the internet, and together they have lively discussions of the gender politics of nude modeling.

"You're all right for a rich white cis dude," Luz tells him after class, rolling their eyes and wiping charcoal off their hands. 

"Thanks," John says. "I try."

"Come out with us Friday," Luz insists. "By which I mean it's a party for National Coming Out Day, and it's going to be amazing."

"Oh," John says, "thanks, but I'm not, uh…." 

Luz waits, tapping their toe and smirking a little. "Not?" 

"Not busy," John says, not meeting their eyes. "Yeah, I'll be there."

"That's what I thought," Luz says with satisfaction. "Come by my room before the party. I'll make you look fierce." 

John has to admit that Luz does a great job. He startles himself, looking in the mirror. His eyes are outlined in stark black winging sharply up; his cheekbones have a bronzey glow. He's almost disappointed when they get to the party and the house is dark, lit only by lamps covered in different colored scarves. Between the dim rainbow globe and the thump of the music he feels like he's underwater. Luz grabs his hand and drags him into the midst of the sweaty, heaving crowd of dancers. They press a cup into his hand, asking with their eyebrows if that's what John wants. John nods and sips - just cheap beer, nothing that will knock him on his ass too fast. Luz grins and closes their eyes and grooves to the music, and after a few more sips, John does too. He lets the bass pulse through him. He feels hands on his back and his hips and his shoulders, like he's bodysurfing vertically through the crowd, and it's reassuring somehow. He is part of everyone, one cell in this joyous beating heart of humanity. He lets go.

Later, as he floats through the dancers to the edge of the room for some water, he thinks he sees Alexander from his PolSys class, his shirt half-unbuttoned, his teeth glimmering in the glow of one of the lamps. He's wearing tight jeans and his shirtsleeves are rolled up over his forearms. Alexander runs his hands through his hair, shakes his hips, and kisses everyone in the circle around him, as playful as a puppy, like he's bestowing a blessing on each cheek or mouth or forehead or neck his lips touch. 

_Yes_ , says John's whole body, so briefly and fiercely his shoulders jolt against the wall. He raises his water to his lips with a shaky hand. Jealous lust tastes bitter on his tongue, and the water doesn't do much to wash it away. 

Luz surfaces next to him. "So it's like that, huh?" They jerk their chin in Alexander's direction. 

"Like what?" John asks.

"Play dumb if you want to," Luz says. "I know what I know." They shake their head fondly. "You want another drink?"

"No thanks, I'm out past my bedtime already," John says, exaggerating a yawn.

"You need me to take you home, Cenicienta? Before you turn into a big old square calabaza?" Luz grins so he knows they're kidding. 

"I can find my own way," he says. "Thanks, Luz. I mean it." He leans forward and kisses them on the cheek, startling himself.

"Don't mention it," Luz says, patting his chest. "Text me when you get home."

"I will," John promises. He walks back through the dark, his heart still thudding to the rhythm of the music, rainbows dotting the corners of his vision. The bright light in the foyer of his dorm is like a shock of cold water. He doesn't want to come back to his senses. He was safe at the party, submerged in the dark wash of dubstep and domestic beer, surrounded by people who didn't care who he was, only that he was there. He texts Luz as he unlocks his door. Sam's asleep, for once, bundled up in his comforter and snoring. John takes off his shirt and flops on his bed. He can feel the tremor in his veins as his heart beats. Something inside him has come untethered. It's the feeling of freedom, he thinks; he's Ben Franklin, lofting a kite into an electric storm, waiting for the shock. When the lightning strikes, it's going to rock his world.

\+ + + + 

He goes back after that and reads every single one of Alexander's posts on their discussion board for Political Systems. There are a lot of them. Alexander goes way beyond the minimum requirement for the class, a number John has just managed to keep ahead of. It's like he has to refute any point anyone else makes, or expand on it past the point that anyone else in the class can stay interested. There are a few threads of ten messages or more, but Alexander always has the last word. He's a good writer too: witty and deft, articulate and precise even when his replies trend into paragraphs of exposition. He could easily be insufferable, but John finds himself fascinated. It doesn't seem like Alexander is trying to lord over the rest of them how much more he already knows about the topics. It's more like Alexander is just so excited to be discussing them that he can't stop himself from talking and talking and talking about the political systems of the United States federal government until everyone else goes home exhausted. 

John would swear he's learning more from Alexander than from the professor. He wishes Alexander was in his writing class, which would be an education, or his theology class; Alexander would be certain to untangle the problem with God. He reads and re-reads Alexander's posts, composing his replies in a Google Doc - it would be weird to post to weeks-old threads now. Maybe at the end of the semester when it looks like he's rallying for extra credit. For now he's got half a conversation tucked away in his Drive, getting longer every day. He even logs on to the databases through the library website and looks up a couple of articles that support his points. He replies to the current threads, arguing with Tom Jefferson, piggybacking off Alexander's ideas. Jefferson posts almost as much as Alexander does. Sometimes their arguments go on for twenty or thirty posts, longer if Jamia Madison weighs in, usually on Jefferson's side. John stays up almost as late as Sam does, glued to his screen.

In early November, the professor is out for some reason and their TA, Burr, has taken over the class. Burr brings up their Blackboard discussion forum on the projector and scrolls through the threads. 

"Jefferson, Madison, solid points," Burr says. "Hamilton, long-winded as always."

"If you'd bother to read my long-windedness, you might learn something," Alexander says, his face all winsome charm and his tone of voice sweet.

"Watch yourself," Burr says, almost amiable. John can see Burr's hands, though, and Burr's dark brown fingers are tense over the keyboard. 

"Of course, Mister Burr, BA, sir," Alexander says, tossing off a sloppy salute.

"Actually," John says, "I thought Hamilton raised a couple of good points. Without a strong central democracy, the departments are such different sizes and function in such different jurisdictions that some of the smaller or less-prioritized departments would suffer from a lack of funding. I mean, we already know that the budget starts a squabble in Congress every year, and agencies like the EPA are fighting for their lives."

"While the military," Alexander takes over smoothly, "eats up more and more funding and the world burns."

"Not very patriotic," mutters Jefferson. "You want to talk about American political systems, but you don't think the military's important?"

"I didn't say that," Alexander says. "i think the military is crucial. I actually considered joining the Army, in fact, despite the underrepresentation of people of color in the officer corps, but that's a discussion for another day. The military ought to be a substantial portion of our spending, because we ought to take care of the soldiers whose lives are on the line. But we can't and shouldn't be the world's police force. I'm one hundred percent in favor of having a strong military presence, and in favor of having our soldiers properly equipped and properly cared for when their tours are done. I'm not in favor of selling arms to foreign governments because we don't like their neighbors and then fighting the first government ten years later when we decide we don't like them either. I'm not in favor of underfunding the VA to pay for planes so expensive no one will ever fly them." 

They bicker back and forth like that for the rest of the hour as half the class watches and half the class texts (a normal proportion on any day). John throws his opinion in when he can, and Jamia Madison looks up statistics on her phone to bolster Jefferson. Burr pretends to moderate their discussion, but John thinks he's egging them on. At least he looks relaxed again, and he actually sides with Alexander at the end. 

"Important points to consider," he says, "Even climate change deniers need clean water. Don't forget, everyone - your next discussion posts are due by 11:59 Friday. That's not 12:01 Saturday morning. I will be looking at the timestamp." The class dissolves into chatter as everyone shrugs on their coats and winds their scarves around their necks. There's been a cold snap; it's unseasonably frosty, though it promises to warm up again by the weekend. 

When John gets out of the building, Alexander's waiting for him, leaning casually against the sheltering wall where the smokers like to stand. No smokers today, which is just as well. John hates walking past them; his wool scarf reeks for days afterward. 

"Hey," Alexander says. "You were good today."

"Thanks," John says. He breathes out a puff of white steam to hide his face. Alexander talking to him has the same effect as the icy wind - he's invigorated, somehow, and shaky at the same time.

"Alexander Hamilton," Alexander says. "Professional loudmouth."

"Right, we haven't actually met," John says, holding out his gloved hand. "Jack Laurens." 

"Laurens?" Alexander says. His grip is firm as he shakes John's hand. "I thought your name was John. Or did the registrar figure one four-letter name starting with J was as good as another?"

"Yeah, it's John, Jack's a family nickname," John says. "You know, like the Kennedys."

"Of course," Alexander says, his voice diplomatic. "Like the Kennedys."

"My father has a thing about the Kennedys," John tells him. "Kind of inevitable for any established family with three sons and political aspirations. Even after my brother died, he never gave it up. " 

"Do you like it?" Alexander says, leaning forward. His eyes are really ridiculously blue, like Photoshopped-campaign-poster blue. Instagram-filter blue. 

"Do I like what?" John asks, distracted by those eyes. 

"Your family nickname," Alexander says patiently. "Your diminutive."

John shrugs. "I've never thought about it."

"You're thinking about it now," Alexander tells him. He waits, one corner of his mouth turning up almost imperceptibly. John realizes that he's staring at Alexander's lips. 

"Yeah," he says, "no." He holds out his hand again. Alexander shakes it, smiling broadly. "John Laurens."

"John," Alexander says. "It's a pleasure to meet you. Alexander Hamilton."

"Alexander or Alex?" John asks. 

"Alex is fine," Alexander says. "Mister Hamilton if you're nasty." 

John laughs. "What if I'm just polite?" 

"Oh, I've read your posts on our discussion board," Alex says. "Underneath that sweet Southern veneer, there's a deep dark well of the finest nastiness. I mean that as a compliment."

"Thank you," John says after a moment. "I think."

"This friendship is going to be a lot easier for the both of us if you just assume everything I say is an innuendo," Alex tells him. "So when I assure you that you, John Laurens, have a great capacity for nastiness, I say it with admiration and gentlemanly appreciation. I could elbow you in the ribs knowingly if you want."

"That's not the kind of compliment I've ever gotten before," John says. 

"No?" Alex says cheerfully. "Well, then call it foreshadowing." 

"Foreshadowing for you know what I'm just going to stop right there," John says, almost managing not to blush. Maybe he can blame the color in his cheeks on the cold wind that whips past them.

"Very good, Laurens," Alex says. "Come on, I'll introduce you to my study group. It's freezing out here." He strides off and John follows.

"What study group?" he asks as they walk.

"Didn't you know?" Alex asks. "I'm terribly underprivileged, as a young orphan from the unincorporated territories with a working-class guardian who attended an underperforming public high school in one of the less-gentrified parts of New York City. Georgetown assigned me to a study group with other potentially imperiled students in my chosen major. It's a diversity initiative or something."

"Do I know them?" John asks, intrigued. 

Alex shrugs. "A bunch of people bounced, but there's a French guy with about a thousand names who goes by Roch and another scholarship kid named Hercules. You'll like them. I've also recruited this girl Angelica - we had kind of a meet-cute where we both needed the same book at the library, there's a whole thing there. But Burr's supposed to teach us good study habits, so that's basically a disaster. He has to sit in with us as part of his TA gig. I love pretending I've never heard of Cornell notes or MLA citation."

John blinks. "Aaron Burr, our TA from PolSys? I thought he hated you."

"He does," Alex says with relish. "Except for when he doesn't. I was his darling for the first few weeks, and then he had a change of heart once he realized that a) I am a huge pain in the ass and b) everyone hates him for his wishy-washy ways and having darlings. Just two of the many reasons I love inviting new people and adding to his responsibilities. You coming?"

"Definitely," John says. 

\+ + + + 

Roch and Herc are fantastic, and they welcome John like it's a foregone conclusion that any friend of Alex's (which he is now, he guesses) is a friend of theirs. Angelica, who's a sophomore, is some sort of magic in the form of a woman. John understands all in a rush what it's like to want to kiss someone he's just met, although Angelica already has an established flirtation with Alex and that's also just fine with John. She's not really his type, though if he's learning anything, it's that he really has no idea what his type is. Anyway, he's happy to watch her eyes flash and her lips quirk as she parries Alex's endless observations. Watching them banter back and forth is almost as good as flirting with Alex himself. 

He's the only white person in the group, which is a little bit new - it's not like South Carolina isn't diverse, but his father kept them running in certain social circles, as Henry Laurens might phrase it. Herc and Burr are both black; Angelica's Latina. Roch refers to himself as _beur blanc_ , which John always thought was the name of a sauce, but maybe it's just that he didn't get that lesson in French class, or maybe Roch is making fun of Burr. (Roch explains later that his family is from the Maghreb, and that beur blanc is a joke about his paleness compared to his Arab cousins' darker complexions.) Anyway, Roch has a fantastic collection of North African francoarabe music that he plays during their study sessions, and he speaks Arabic, French, Spanish, and English with exceptional flair. The fact that he was originally assigned to the study group because he's not a native English speaker seems like an injustice, but Roch says he doesn't mind.

"I lower their expectations," he says, winking, "and then, oh, zis boy is a genius! Top marks!"

It makes sense to John. Even better, Roch helps him with his French homework, and it turns out that Alex is taking French too, though he's ahead of John. Angelica and Herc are taking Spanish, Angelica because she wants to increase her literacy after growing up speaking the language and Herc because there was a cute Dominican girl at his high school and he's already done three years trying to get her attention.

"Didn't work," he says, "but it's all good."

"Better than me taking Latin because I thought the teacher was hot," Angelica says. "Although he was definitely hot." She shrugs. "Makes Spanish literature seem easy, anyway." 

Burr usually leaves them alone, working on his own projects. He's got a master's thesis to write, he reminds them, keep it down.

"Why do you keep coming to these sessions?" John whispers to Alex one of the days they're all sequestered in the study room. Finals are approaching and everyone is sunk deep into their notes. "You don't need any of this. You could pass without ever studying."

"First, Burr hates it," Alex murmurs back, "which means that it delights me. Second, my dear sponsors want to know that they're getting the education they're paying for, and that their darling little prodigy isn't wasting all their dollars on frivolous things, so it looks good for me. Third, do you know how impossible it is to get a study room if you don't have mandated study group? I'm going to milk that as long as it lasts. The dorm is a terrible place to get work done. Too full of temptations."

John glances at Angelica. "And studying isn't?"

Alex follows his gaze and grins. "Of course it is," he says. "So many delectable texts just waiting to be deeply and thoroughly analyzed." His forearm presses against John's. "But give me a little credit, Laurens. My approach is intersectional." 

John clears his throat to distract the rest of his body from the warmth of Alex's arm. "I thought it might be." 

"Is it that clear that I am irresistible to all, irrespective of gender?" Alexander preens.

"I saw you at the Coming Out Day party," John says. 

"Oho," Alex says. "I thought that was you, across the room, all tall, pale, and handsome like a sexy ghost. I would have asked you to dance, but then you disappeared, which is, come to think of it, also like a ghost. So if there's something you need to tell me, this is a perfect opening."

"My friend invited me," John says. "I, uh, don't go out a lot."

"Mmm," Alex says, giving him a onceover. "Is that your way of saying, 'Oh, Alexander, I'm flattered, but I'm just not into men, despite your particular and obvious charms'?"

"No," John says. "It's my way of saying, 'Oh God, I'm very nervous right now and there are some things about myself I maybe haven't explored yet and I'd never been to a party like that before'." He looks away, his cheeks hot. 

Alex nudges his knee against John's under the table. "Hey. That was pretty fucking brave, Laurens." His voice is surprisingly gentle. "If you need someone to talk to, I can suspend the innuendo for at least half an hour."

"I might take you up on that," John says. "But I definitely need to get through finals first." 

"You going home for break?" Alex asks.

"Yeah," John says. "You?"

Alex shrugs. "Not a lot of home to go to - my cousin had a baby and they need the space. Herc's family said I could crash on their couch and one of the professors at the law school needs somebody to do some filing while the law students are gone."

"You could come home with me," John says. 

"Why, John," Alex says, batting his eyes, "this is all moving so fast." John rolls his eyes and Alex laughs and bumps his knee again. "Maybe next time. I don't want to impose. This filing won't do itself anyway. "

"You wouldn't be imposing," John tells him. "God knows we have enough room. Nobody ever even touches my brother's room."

"I wouldn't be imposing on you," Alex says, gazing steadily at him. "Sometimes families are another matter."

"My dad only cares that I don't fail out of college or get involved in some kind of indelible scandal," John says, only a little bitterness in his voice. "He wouldn't mind."

"Sure," Alex says. "Because nothing appeals to the upstanding fathers of the white upper middle class like ambiguously multiethnic, moderately flamboyant, dirt-poor upstart pains in the ass."

"Point," John says. "But one of these days I'm going to take you home."

Alex looks at him and smiles. "I'm sure you will. Now quit trying to get me to move in, Laurens, and cram some more grammar into your head."

They both turn back to their books, but Alex's arm is still wedged firmly against John's, and neither one of them moves. 

\+ + + + 

Finals, as it turns out, are fine. John takes a couple of breaths and they're over, or so it seems. By contrast, break stretches on forever. John feels like he spends half of it trapped at dinner with his father and half of it in his room, texting Alex and Luz and Herc and Roch. He stays up late researching the laws behind the call-to-action articles he reads online: immigration and deportation, LGBT rights, the disenfranchisement of non-white voters, gerrymandering, trans rights, housing discrimination, health care. 

"What the fuck," he texts Alex.

"What the fuck what?" Alex texts back.

"Everything," John says, and Alex calls him. 

"What's wrong?" Alex asks.

"White dudes fuck up everything," John says.

Alex laughs. "You're just now getting this."

"Yeah, well." John flops onto his bed. "I mean, the call was coming from inside the house, you know."

"Listen," Alex says, "when I tell you this, it in no way absolves you from centuries of bullshit or the responsibility to keep fighting the good fight, but you, personally, John Laurens, have not fucked up that much yet. There's still time to disassemble the white supremacist heteropatriarchy."

"What should I do?" John asks.

"You're doing okay so far," Alex says. "Just keep making sure you're not talking over anybody who has more right to say something than you do."

"What about speaking truth to power?" John asks. "Don't I have a responsibility?"

"Sure," Alex says. "But there are times you should keep your mouth shut. Don't worry, I'll help you. I'm very creative when it comes to ways to shut people up."

"I'm sure you are," John tells him, trying not to imagine those ways. He rolls onto his back and shoves his hand loosely in his pocket. 

"That was innuendo, by the way," Alex says, and his voice is velvet in John's ears.

"I figured that out," John says. "It wasn't, you know, hard."

"Hmm," Alex says, stretching out the word with delicious deliberateness. "Then I must not have done a good job."

"Speaking of jobs," John says, trying to distract himself from thoughts of Alex's creative shutting-up solutions, "how's filing?" 

"Dull, dull, dull," says Alex cheerfully. "I've written at least six treatises in my head. Law professors are the worst. I can't wait until that's us."

"We're going to be professors?" John asks, amused.

"Obviously," Alex says. "After a decade or two in practice, to make sure we have plenty of street cred. Do good in the courts, do well as professors, educate the new generation and make sure we publish enough that you and Angelica get confirmed as judges. After that, it's smooth sailing to Supreme Court nominations. Especially for you, because you're going to be a dignified white silver fox by then, and that's what Congress loves, historically."

"And in the meantime, what are you doing?" John asks.

"Shaping policy like a motherfucker on some sort of commission or as head of an agency," Alex says. "Obviously. I'm too pretty for black robes."

"So's Angelica," John points out. 

"Angelica looks good in everything," Alex says dismissively. "In the robes, out of the robes. Half out of the robes. Maybe robes on with nothing on underneath. Maybe in chambers after the decision of the century. I mean, who knows."

"You've definitely given the future some thought," John says, stifling a laugh.

"In my case, it's better than thinking about the past," Alex says. "I mean, what's your story? Your family come over on the Mayflower?"

"Not quite," John says, embarrassed. "But Laurenses have been here for a long time."

"How much of South Carolina does your family own?"

"Some," John prevaricates. "I mean, I don't ever listen to the details." 

"Yeah," Alex says. "Of course you don't. Meanwhile, I'm a no-name from nowhere. My parents met while Ma was visiting family on St. Croix and my dad was probably running some scam. They just stayed there, told everyone they got married. He stuck around until I was ten or so and then left. He took all our money - we were just lucky Ma's cousin had enough to pay for plane tickets back to New York, and an extra room for us. When Ma died, my cousin tried to find Dad. No dice, plus it turned out he and Ma never even got legally married. So it was just me and my brother, sharing that room, literal bastards and practical orphans, no family and no future. I worked my ass off to finish high school and help pay off Ma's medical bills. All of that just to get back to zero."

"Wow," John says, because he doesn't know what to say.

"Yeah," Alex says. "The only reason I'm even at Georgetown is that I won a writing contest. How fucking ridiculous is that? I wrote a sad poem and won some cash and some Georgetown alum read it and gathered up all her successful, wealthy, Georgetown alum friends and told the school they'd pay for what I didn't get in scholarships, as long as I could get admitted. They even took me shopping for a new wardrobe so I could look the part and got me a workstudy position in the polisci department office running copies and shit. I'm eternally grateful and eternally indebted. The deal is I write them a little thank you note every semester, telling them how amazing they are for helping me achieve my dreams, and they keep giving me a stipend so I can pretend I'm living the life." 

"I'm sure it was a good sad poem," John tells him. 

"It was a fucking amazing sad poem for a seventeen-year-old," Alex says. "But that's not the point. I'm not part of your world, Laurens, Little Mermaid-style. I want thingamabobs. You've got twenty. No big deal, right." 

"So we change the world," John says fiercely. "You change the world. I'll back you up. I'll give up my voice for you." 

Alex laughs, sad and mad and a little hysterical and more than a little indulgent. "Laurens," he says tenderly. "You naive motherfucker. It's a deal."

"We should shake on it," John says. 

"Oh, we'll shake on it," Alex says in that velvet voice. "I never forget a promise. You're going feel the warm firm pressure of my hand soon enough, baby girl."

John laughs and shifts on his bed. Alex's powers of innuendo are certainly effective. 

"So…" he says to distract himself. "Filing?"

"Yeah, filing," Alex says. "As previously discussed: dusty, boring, and tedious, in that order. Are you listening to me, John?"

"I'm definitely listening," John protests. "Sad poem. Sad history. Amazing future."

"So you're not, for instance, fantasizing in any way about our reunion?" Alex asks, in that sweet voice John hasn't heard since the first day of PolSys.

"Nah," John says, pretending that he isn't edging closer and closer to touching himself through the pocket of his jeans. "Enjoying my vacation, you know. Christmas is coming."

"Just making sure," Alex purrs. 

"Jaaaaaack?" calls Jennifer's voice up the stairs, which is the ultimate boner-killer, as it turns out. "Jaaacky. Dinner!"

"Hey, I gotta go," John says. "We're going skiing tomorrow, but I'll call you."

"Skiing for Christmas," Alex says drily. "Sounds awful."

"I'll take you one of these years," John promises. 

"Only if we can make out in the chalet," Alex says. "Chalets are a thing, right?"

"Yes," John says. He's definitely not thinking about cold noses, or warm lips, or the crackle of a fire as the quiet soundtrack to a scene of gently building need. 

"Yes?" Alex asks, laughter in his voice.

John clears his throat. "Chalets are definitely a thing. Talk later?"

"My dear Laurens, haven't you learned yet? I literally can't stop talking," Alex says. "Go eat."

"Maybe one day I'll find a way to shut you up," John says. 

"Hmmm," Alex says. "That would take an impressive...effort, if you know what I mean."

"Hah," John says. "Bye."

"Good night, sweet prince," Alex says, and hangs up.


	2. Freshman Spring

John goes back early, renting a hotel room for a couple of days on the credit card his dad gave him. "I've got a lot of reading to do," he tells his family, and he isn't lying. "The dorm isn't open," he says, and he might be lying, but he doesn't care to find out. He and Alex and Roch and Herc make the most of the hotel's amenities, swimming in the pool, taking over the treadmills in the fitness center, lounging in the hot tub, and taking all the waffle batter at the continental breakfast. They get a lot of reading done too. Angelica and Luz drop by, and they study until three a.m., sprawled over each other and ordering too many pizzas. At night, he and Alex share one of the double beds, and Herc and Roch share the other.

The last day before the dorms open is Alex's birthday. Roch goes out for a cake; Herc gets his friend to buy them beer; John spends an hour at the bookstore looking for something Alex might not have read. It's an almost impossible task. Alex has a voracious appetite for the written word. Any time John mentions a book, Alex is almost certain to have already read it. In the end, John buys a biography about the Morgan family, which the cover blurb claims is an ambitious history of American finance. Alex is always interested in the economy. Surely he'll enjoy an 800-page dissection of American banking. He has them wrap it at the counter. The birthday paper all looks like it was designed for five-year-olds. John picks out a paper with snowflakes instead. 

They sing "Happy Birthday" over a small cake without candles, for fear of setting off the fire alarm. Alex insists on slicing it himself, dividing the cake between the five of them.

"Only nineteen," he says, "but my mind is older." He leers jokingly at Angelica.

"I'm sure you say that to all the cougars," she says, rolling her eyes. 

"Remind me when Freddy gets back, he owes me a pantless party," Alex says, sprawling into the chair in their hotel room. "All of you are wearing way too many clothes."

"I got you something for Freddy's next party, actually," Angelica says, tossing him a package. "Happy birthday."

Alex rips into the paper. His expression goes from anticipation to surprise to delight. He holds up a pair of - well, John isn't quite sure how to describe them - short, lacy boxer-briefs, maybe. They look like the boy short bottoms he's seen in the women's underwear department, but with some clear accommodations for more prominent anatomy. Roch applauds and Herc laughs until John is afraid he won't be able to breathe.

"Perfect," Herc proclaims. "Freddy will love them."

"Freddy von Steuben," Alex explains to John. "He throws these amazing parties. But you aren't allowed to wear pants."

"Sounds fun," John says, trying not to imagine Alex wearing those underwear. They're aqua blue, almost the color of Alex's eyes, and John is certain they'll stand out in glorious contrast to Alex's brown skin. Alex rummages around in the wrappings and pulls out two more pairs: one black, one white. 

"I sense an ulterior motive," Alex tells Angelica, waggling his eyebrows at her.

"I just want you to have something to wear to Freddy's parties," Angelica protests, but there's laughter in her voice.

"Uh huh," Alex says, stuffing the underwear back into the wrappings. "It'll be our little secret, darling." He sets the package on the table and picks up John's book. "Next."

"Oh," John says, "uh, well, this is going to be underwhelming now."

"Shh," Alex says, and slips a finger under the flap of the paper. "I'm sure I'll treasure it, whatever it is." And his eyes do light up just as much when he sees the title of the book. "I love this," he proclaims, turning it over to read the summary on the back. "You did good, my dear J." 

"Happy birthday," John says, and holds Alex's praise close to his heart. In addition to the cake, Roch has brought a terrible movie with a lot of nudity, which Alex insists they all watch, and Herc has bought a bunch of beer. It's a raucous night, tempered only by their desire not to get kicked out for being too loud. John feels like he's remembering the whole thing even as he lives it, his vision muddled by a haze of alcohol and misplaced desire. 

"Hey," Alex whispers to him in the middle of the night, his body curled around John's, his lips almost grazing John's neck. "Are you awake?"

"Yeah," John breathes.

"Me too," Alex says, slipping an arm around John's waist. He cuddles closer and John relaxes into the curve of Alex's body, his arm resting against Alex's. He rubs Alex's wrist with his thumb, just a gentle back and forth, and Alex makes a little satisfied noise and breathes on the back of John's neck.

And that's all, but it's enough. 

\+ + + + 

Spring semester, he and Alex and Herc have Elements of Political Theory together, which is great. Less great is that Tom Jefferson and Jamia Madison are in there with them, but John loves watching Alex tear their arguments apart. He can feel his heart pounding as Alex speaks, especially when Alex winks at him as Jefferson sputters. John doesn't contain his replies to a Google Doc this time; he writes almost as many discussion posts as Alex does, to the point where Jefferson rolls his eyes when he sees either of them, which feels like a victory. 

John still has enough credits from AP classes that he can justify taking another art class without compromising his plans. It's all figure drawing this time, and he and Luz have a lot of moments where they look at each other and have to refrain from laughing. There's more homework, though, and sometimes he has to find reference photos online. Of course, it's one of those days that Alex comes to his room. John's left the privacy lock engaged, keeping the door from closing all the way. He's looking up models on an art site when Alex barges in. 

"Knock knock," he says, dropping his coat and kicking off his shoes, and then catches a glimpse of John's laptop. "And hello. Why, John, I thought you were too good, too pure for this world, but here you are, using Google for illicit purposes just like the rest of us."

"Listen," John says, almost slamming the laptop shut, "I have homework. For art class. I know that sounds fake."

"It really, really does," Alex assures him. "This is your bed, right?" He jumps on it without waiting for an answer, lounging in a ridiculous pose. "So should we talk about how I walked in on you looking at naked people."

"For art homework," John insists. "Figure drawing. Luz is coming over and we were going to draw together."

"And here I thought I was going to get to discover so much about you," Alex mourns, dragging John's pillow over his head. His shirt rides up, revealing a sliver of flat brown stomach and the suggestions of hip bones. John swallows hard. 

"I don't think there's much to discover about me," he says.

"You might be surprised," Alex tells him. 

John turns back to his screen, but now he feels like every click will betray some secret desire. "I just need someone to draw."

"Baby girl," Alex says, muffled by the pillow. He sits up, his skin disappearing again under his shirt. "If you need a life model, all you have to do is ask." 

Now that is a thought that doesn't bear lingering on, if only because Alex is too observant by half and John is expecting more company. "I don't think you can sit still for that long," John prevaricates. 

"Bet," Alex tells him, leaning forward and looking intently into John's eyes. "I can do anything. I can even do it shirtless."

"You know our figure drawing models are naked, right?" John says.

"I can even do it naked," Alex amends, without even flinching. "Is that what you want?"

"It's required," John hedges, and Alex looks him straight in the eye and tugs his shirt over his head. He's lean and muscular and John's fingers itch with the urge to draw him (and oh, much more than that, but Luz will be here any minute). Alex unbuttons his jeans.

"Is that what you want?" he asks. 

God, his eyes are so fucking blue. John doesn't even know how to explain that genetically, but so much about Alex is a miracle. There's no point in questioning it. "Yeah," John says. "That's what I want."

Alex doesn't blink as he unzips his jeans and kicks them off. His socks follow, and then his boxers. 

Fuck, John thinks, and he isn't sure if he says it, but Alex smirks anyway. 

"How do you want me?" he asks.

"Uhhh," John starts, and then recovers himself. "Sitting? Against the wall is fine. You can cross your legs or whatever if you want."

Alex props one knee up instead and leans on it, his grin positively insouciant. "Do you like this?"

"Perfect," John says. "Uh, for drawing." 

It is at that moment that Luz knocks. Of course. 

 

"Come in," John says, burying his hot face in his hands. In for a penny, in for a pound, after all. This is what Alex wanted. Apparently.

"Uh huh," Luz says, stopping short, their sketchbook already in hand. "I can come back if you're busy, John." 

"Luz," John says. "This is Alex. He's...in my major. He, uh, volunteered to be our model. Alex, this is Luz."

"Uh huh," Luz says, looking Alex over from head to toe. "I know him."

"Do you?" John says at the same time Alex does, but Alex looks more intrigued.

"Maybe," Luz says, casting a sly look at John. "Maybe not."

John breathes out. "I don't think so," he says, but his tone is too pointed. Alex's eyebrows rise. 

"We'll talk about this later," Alex assures Luz. "Coffee?" 

"Perfect," Luz says, unpacking their supplies.

John stifles a protest. Alex winks at him. 

"It turns out I do have things to do after this," Alex says. "So stop wasting time and paint me like one of your French girls."

John closes the door all the way before he picks up his pencils, and he uses the privacy lock too. Alex is still there, sitting obediently still as Luz starts to sketch. John blushes as he sets his materials up. He catches Alex's eye and has to look away. He focuses on the angle of Alex's shoulder where it cants into his neck, trying to capture it on his paper. It's a good place to start, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing he hasn't seen before. John settles into a rhythm, glancing and sketching, as Alex stays perfectly quiet.

Drawing, he barely even notices Alex. He's busy disassembling him into his components: light, shadow, tension, ease. It's not like the other models, but it's not much different. Alexander is made up of the same sinews and bones as everyone else. It's his mouth that makes the difference, and the brilliant mind that powers it. John can't capture the quirk of Alex's lips or the glint in his eye, but he comes close enough. There's the angle of Alex's shoulder, carrying the weight of the world. There's the shadow of Alex's thigh, showing the firmness of the muscle there. There's the crook of Alex's knee, not quite hiding the place that John's eyes glance over. There are the curves of his fingers, easy and relaxed.

Every so often, Luz tells Alex to move. Alex lies down, and then stands next to the bed with his back to them looking over his shoulder, and then sits with his legs out, gazing off into the distance. When he and Luz each have four different sketches, they stop. Fifteen-minute poses, Luz says, but John wasn't keeping track of time. He was lost in the angles and contours of Alex's body. Now that he's not drawing, he glances at Alex and can feel the heat in his cheeks. John is ultraconscious of the expanse of Alex's smooth brown skin with its scattering of dark hair and of the way Alex's abs flex as he breathes. Alex smirks at him. Someone hammers on the door. 

 

"John?" The voice is querulous. "Unless you're having sex, open up! And if you are having sex, I told you to put a sock on the door!"

"Just a second!" John says. "I, uh, just got out of the shower!"

"Who's that?" Alex asks. 

"My roommate Sam," John explains. "You might want to get dressed."

"What if he's a voyeur?" Alex argues under his breath, but he's already putting his clothes back on.

"Then you definitely want to get dressed," John says quietly. "He's not your type." 

Luz smiles and cleans the graphite from their fingers with a wet wipe. "You're a lot more fun than our usual models, Alex."

Alex bows, pulling his shirt down. "Thank you. I aim to please." 

"I'm sure you succeed," Luz says, watching Alex pull on his socks and boots and push his arms into the sleeves of his jacket.

"Well, we'll find out. I believe I promised you coffee," Alex says, offering his arm dramatically. Luz takes it, grinning. 

"Be careful with this one, John," they say. 

"Me?" Alex says. "I'm as gentle and innocent as a spring lamb."

Luz rolls their eyes and unlocks the door. They stroll out past Sam, ignoring him entirely. Sam doesn't seem to mind. He barges in as John hastily closes both laptop and sketchbook. 

"It was an awesome rally," Sam says, with almost religious conviction. "Just awesome. I really felt like the true message of the Tea Party was being heard. We're going to take America back."

"Wow," John says, and leaves it at that.

He Snapchats Alex later, after he's actually showered. He's shirtless and still damp, but he definitely saw Alex completely naked earlier, so it feels like tit for tat. So to speak. 

"Why am I baby girl?" he writes over a picture of him tucked into his bed. The same bed Alex sprawled on earlier. 

"Roll with it," Alex sends back, using the flower crown filter.

John definitely doesn't sneak a look at his sketches before he goes to bed. He definitely doesn't remember Alex's bare skin against his covers, or the careless grace of Alex's limbs. He definitely doesn't dream of Alex and wake up panting and sticky. Of course he doesn't. He was already going to do laundry anyway.

John gets an A on his drawings. The professor comments on the tenderness of his lines. John isn't certain what that means, but he keeps the sketches, wedged into his favorite sketchbook under a piece of onionskin paper to keep them from smudging.

\+ + + +

Grey January rolls into grey February. John settles into a routine slog of class, gym, clubs, art, and study group. His days are enlivened by debates with Alex and Jefferson and Madison; his nights are occasionally enlivened by late-night texts, illicit beers with his study group, or dreams of Alex. Not even sex dreams, not always, just Alex, smiling, full of mischief.

John sometimes wakes up sticky anyway. It's something he's dealing with.

They have study group on Valentine's Day, because of course they do. Midterms are coming up, Alex reminds them in arch tones, and what better way to destroy Burr's day? Alex brings Angelica a ridiculous bouquet of roses and a giant box of chocolates, and she laughs and pulls him onto her lap. Alex tugs one of the flowers out of the bunch and holds it out to John. 

"Mon amour," he intones in a ridiculous dramatic voice. "Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?"

"Arrête," Roch grumbles. "Do your flirting in someone else's language." 

"Peut-être c'est à toi que je parle," Alex says, throwing the flower at him. Roch catches it, breaks off the stem, and sticks the rose into his hair. "Mon petit chou, Roch, don't say no to this. I know you feel it too."

John is almost sure Alex is kidding, but he still feels a pang of jealousy, watching Angelica's arms wrap around Alex, watching Alex make kissy faces at Roch.

Burr storms into the room. "Is this a study group or an orgy?" he demands. 

"I don't see why it can't be both," Alex says, but he slides off Angelica's lap and drapes himself over the back of her chair instead. 

Burr rummages through his papers. "Did one of you take my book?"

Herc pushes it across the table. "Here, man. I needed a quote from one of the essays and the reference librarian said ILL would take two weeks to get another copy."

"This is ridiculous," Burr fumes. "I can't believe I have to waste my time here." 

Herc leans back in his chair. "Hey, Burr, it never even left the room." 

"We love you too, Burr," Alex says. 

"'Ave a bonbon," Roch says, nudging the box closer to Burr. "Perhaps it will sweeten your temper."

Burr just grunts and stomps away.

"What's eating him?" Alex says. "Whatever it is, I approve. In fact, it should take bigger bites."

"He's got a thing for one of the professors," Angelica tells them. 

"Who doesn't?" Alex says, playing with the end of her fishtail braid. "I personally can't wait until you're a hot professor."

"Yeah," Angelica says, "But she's married to the dean of the history department, so."

"Oh shit," Alex says, a little admiration in his voice.

"He is the worst," Herc says. 

"For sure," Roch agrees. 

"What's her name? What does she teach? How can we use this to our advantage?" Alex muses.

Angelica shrugs. "I have a shit ton of reading. We can gossip about Burr later."

"Fine," Alex says, slumping into a chair. "You ruined the mood, by the way. I'm transferring all of my attentions to Roch." 

"I 'ave a date," Roch says. "But perhaps 'Erc will entertain your affections."

"Nah," Herc says. "I've got to finish this paper. And now I'm down a source."

"What's the point of having friends if none of them are willing to go along with your schemes?" Alex says. "I'll just sulk artistically over here and underline things extra hard."

"Do as you wish," Roch tells him, patting him on the shoulder. "But do it quietly."

John doesn't get much done. He's too busy looking over at the long shadows Alex's eyelashes cast over his cheekbones. The study room smells like roses and cocoa. Alex nibbles on the end of his pen as he reads, which is driving John slowly to distraction. They all work in silence except for the tapping of Herc's keyboard. 

Eventually Roch stretches and closes his books. "I must go prepare myself," he says. "As if this could be improved."

"Yeah, I'm done for now," Herc says. He rubs his eyes. 

Angelica gathers up her things and stuffs the box of chocolate in her bag. The roses lie in the crook of her arm like a prize from a beauty pageant. "Thank you, Alex," she says, kissing him on the cheek, almost at the corner of his mouth. Alex smiles up at her, his eyes soft and bright. 

"You're welcome," he tells her. 

John waits until the others have left and it's only Alex, still dreamy-eyed, his pen wedged between his lips. John opens his mouth, hesitates, and closes it again. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know what he wants. There's just Alex, with his profile like a classical bust, and John, some mass of aimless need roughly shaped like a functional person. He's getting rougher and rougher around Alex these days, like a drawing that Alex could smudge into some new shape with the ball of his thumb. But the thought of Alex touching him only makes things worse, and John should go before he does anything he regrets. He jams his papers into a folder and stands up, but there's a sudden pressure at his hip. When he looks down, Alex's finger is hooked through his belt loop. 

"Hey," Alex says softly, dropping his pen on the table. 

Before John can think about it, he leans down and he's kissing Alex. Alex's mouth is hot and soft and oh fuck, John's knees are weak. He has to brace himself against the back of Alex's chair to keep from falling into Alex's mouth. He doesn't know how long they stay like that, but he's pretty sure the universe fades to black and reappears in a bloom of light. He only comes back to himself when Alex pulls him closer and John stumbles and has to catch himself.

"So, uh," John says, drowning in Alex's eyes. "Happy Valentine's Day. I guess."

"That's funny," Alex says, "because that's what I was going to give you for Valentine's Day, if you wanted it."

"Yeah," John says, breathless. "I wanted it."

"Should we talk?" Alex says. "You all right?"

John sits back down, slinging his bag onto the floor. "I'm fine." It's true, which feels weird, but that's the oddest part of it. "I mean, it feels normal. I guess. I don't really have any kind of comparison."

"You sure?" Alex says. "I feel like there are a lot of layers to this situation that maybe we're not really addressing. And I would know about ignoring the layers."

"The weirdest part is that there was never anybody until you," John says. "I mostly just didn't care. I spent my time doing anything but dating in high school."

"It sounds like you kept yourself too busy to think about it," Alex says, taking John's hand and playing with his fingers. 

"Yeah," John admits. "But I wasn't avoiding this. I was avoiding my dad."

"Sometimes running away from yourself feels like running away from your family," Alex says quietly. "But if you're okay, you're okay. Just tell me if that changes."

"I will," John says. "So what now?"

"I was going to say more kissing," Alex tells him. 

"It's ideas like those that are going to have you ruling the world one day," John tells him, and leans forward, and it's like the universe is being reborn all over again.

\+ + + +

For weeks, they don't do anything but kiss, even though Freddy throws one of his infamous parties to celebrate Angelica's birthday the week after Valentine's Day. Alex proudly wears his lacy underwear, which look just as good as John imagined, and grinds up on Angelica to make her laugh. John thinks that he ought to be jealous, but he's too distracted by how gorgeous the two of them are. Alex corners him later and makes up for it with his mouth; John shivers as their bare thighs press together, but neither of them makes a move toward anything but making out. Apparently this is the one area of his life where Alex is willing to show any kind of restraint. They make out again in the study room (after everyone leaves), and in Alex's room, and in John's room, and once in the single-stall bathroom near their political theory class, and every time, John feels more and more like himself.

"I mean, it's not like I never fantasized," he tells Alex as Alex traces patterns on John's leg. They're sitting on John's bed. "But it was more the feeling, less the person. I didn't have a face to put on it."

"And now?" Alex purrs.

"Your face, baby girl," John says, tugging him closer. He doesn't know why that's the endearment that comes to mind, but somehow it works for them, despite not making much sense.

And it's true. He never cared about dating before, but he thought it was because he just didn't like the girls his father pushed at him. He wasn't even very interested in the Art Club boy, but maybe that was a matter of timing.

"All those sweet debutantes," Alex mused, "and really what you needed was a brilliant, infuriating, prolix, island transplant New Yorker."

"I have very specific needs, I guess," John says, and Alex grins and shakes his head. "Weird question."

"Yeah," Alex says. 

"Do you consider yourself more a New Yorker or more, uh, St. Croixian?" 

"Crucian," Alex corrects, and then shrugs. "Island life was life with Dad, and the only good thing I ever got from him is dual citizenship. It's easier to be me in New York - everybody's from somewhere else there, but as long as you walk fast, it doesn't matter. Plus, I don't have to watch over my shoulder all the time in case my dad owed somebody something. Not a lot of people on St. Croix - he probably owed half of them. But coming to New York was like coming to another world. I got to reinvent myself. New York is my home." 

"That makes sense," John says. 

Alex lies back on the bed. "You know me. I'm a little bit of everything from everywhere. But in New York, that's normal. None of us belong anywhere else."

"Sure," John says, stretching out beside Alex. 

"Not like you," Alex tells him, rolling over enough that he can poke John in the chest. "You and your deep roots." 

"Sometimes roots hold you down," John says. He tugs at Alex until Alex is half on top of him. "I'd much rather you hold me down."

"Oh would you," Alex murmurs. He drags himself slowly up John's body. John groans quietly as Alex's thigh slides between his. "I can handle that."

"I'm sure you can handle anything," John murmurs as Alex leans closer. He runs his hands down Alex's back as Alex's mouth meets his. John didn't know that kissing Alex could get any better, but it turns out that the weight of Alex's body makes the pressure of Alex's mouth even sweeter. John arches his back, lifting his hips against Alex's, and they both sigh with pleasure. 

"What do you want me to handle?" Alex asks. He kisses John's earlobe and then nips at it. John shivers. 

"Anything," he breathes. 

Alex kisses his way down John's neck to his collarbone. His busy hand moves over John's ribs and down his side; the fingers of the other hand lace themselves through John's hair. The exploring hand creeps under John's shirt and John shivers again. Alex's skin against his is a miracle. It's more than John could have wished for. Desire sparks from each point of contact until John's body is just one crackle of need. He imagines the static electricity ball at the science museum, the way the luminescent purple bolts would follow the path of his hands. That's what Alex does to him: lights him up, until his need is almost visible, and brings out magic John didn't know he contained. 

Alex's fingers dance across John's belly and along the waistband of John's jeans.

"Anything?" Alex asks. 

"Please," John says, his voice catching in his throat. 

Alex kisses him, his tongue sliding into John's mouth, and John opens himself deeper as Alex's fingers work at the button of John's jeans. John's hips jerk as the button pops open. The way the zipper crackles as it slides down shivers up John's spine and back down again, a sizzle of desire. And then Alex's hand slides into John's boxers and fuck, John has never felt like this. His own hand doesn't have Alex's deft touch, or Alex's particular calluses, or whatever else it is that Alex has. John clutches at Alex's wrist, not to stop him, but to urge him on. 

"This is a little awkward," Alex murmurs between kisses. 

"What?" John says. "Oh."

"I don't want to stop, I have an idea," Alex says. "Sit up?"

John pushes himself up in a daze as Alex sits up and pats the space between his legs. He pulls John back against him, so that his legs frame John's hips and John's leaning against his chest. Alex kisses John's ear and hugs John even closer. John shifts his shoulders comfortably and shoves at his clothing until Alex has access to every inch of him, so to speak. Alex reaches down and hums with satisfaction.

"Better," he says, his hand sliding back down around John's cock. John fishes a bottle of lotion out from next to his bed and wordlessly drips some onto Alex's hand. Alex smirks.

"Even better," John says, his voice still husky. He turns to kiss Alex as Alex strokes his cock with gentle fingers. Alex traces up and down and up and down until John is squirming and panting. 

"Please," John gasps, and Alex grins and takes John fully in hand. His fingers curl around John's cock, applying pressure so delicious that John's brain melts. He can feel Alex's erection against the small of his back; he reaches back and squeezes Alex's ass with one hand. Alex nuzzles at John's neck, nibbling gently. John can't keep himself from thrusting up into the heat of Alex's hand. Alex's other hand is up under John's shirt, stroking John's stomach and chest, and John is so fucking in love that he can't even say it. All he can do is let go, safe in Alex's arms. He comes all over Alex's hand and his own leg. Alex laughs softly and wipes his hand on John's thigh.

"Oh, God," John says, and collapses sideways. Alex rubs his back gently. 

"You look good with sex hair," he teases, and John turns to look up at him. 

"And my hair's barely even gotten sexy yet," he says. Alex leans down to kiss him softly. 

"We do have a lot left to explore," Alex says.

John eyes the bulge in Alex's jeans. "We can start now." He slides down until he's kneeling on the floor and tugs Alex closer. His fingers fumble a little at first, but Alex is a willing participant in his own undressing. Soon his jeans and boxers are on the floor, and he's looking down at John wearing just a half-undone button-up. It is, John thinks, a very flattering look. He touches Alex's cock tentatively at first. Alex watches with bedroom eyes, the lids half-closed, his irises just blue glints of desire. 

"You don't have to," Alex says. 

"I want to," John tells him. He's seen it in porn often enough; it can't be that difficult.

Alex smiles at him. "Got a condom?"

"For this?" John says. "It's not like I'm going to get pregnant." He sits back on his heels. "Wait, are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm clean," Alex says. "But it's your first time. It might make things a little easier. Less...cleanup." 

The only condoms John can find are a handful filched from the health center table during student orientation. They're all flavored for some reason, and a variety of bright, unappetizing colors. He holds up two. "Mint or banana?"

"Honestly, those both sound terrible," Alex says. "But banana's funnier. When in doubt, go for the gag. But not literally." He takes the packet from John and tears it open with a competency that John finds both sexy and slightly jealousy-inducing. He rolls the bright yellow latex down over his cock. It doesn't add to the outfit, but it is entertaining. 

"Appetizing, no?" Alex says.

"Yes," John says fervently, and leans forward. He runs his fingers along the length of Alex's cock, just like Alex did with his, and Alex smiles. 

"You don't have to take it all the way," Alex says. "Wrap your fingers around the base, and that'll be easier." 

"I'll keep that in mind," John tells him, and lowers his mouth over Alex's cock. It's a little bit like trying to swallow a banana-flavored balloon. He's surprised by how substantial Alex feels, the heft of his cock inside John. It's too much. It's perfect.

"Use your tongue," Alex says, and now he's the one with a husky voice. He reaches forward and runs his hand tenderly through John's hair. John does what he's told, which he's done for most of his life, but he likes it this time. He didn't know cocks had this much texture, even through the latex; he makes a mental map of Alex's, marking each spot that makes Alex moan and devoting even more attention to it. 

"My dear Laurens, you're a natural," Alex says, so fondly that John's heart catches. 

He does have to take Alex's advice at the end. His tongue gets tired - he didn't even know that was possible - and he can't relax enough or get the angle right to deep-throat. But Alex tangles his fingers urgently in John's hair and John uses his fist and his tongue and lets the rising pitch of Alex's moans guide him, until Alex is trembling, his thighs tense under John's elbows. 

"Oh, yes," Alex says, and comes, bucking up into John's mouth. John holds on until Alex's muscles go slack. Alex leans back on his elbows. 

"Sweet Jesus," Alex says as John digs around in his desk for a piece of gum. The banana flavor didn't improve with time. He finds one and flops back onto the bed next to Alex, his jeans still undone and his boxers puffing out the open fly. 

"That was amazing," Alex says, kissing John. "Mm, fresh."

"It was the best," John says fiercely. 

Alex sits up and peels off the condom, knotting it and throwing it into John's trash. He cuddles in next to John, dragging the corner of John's comforter over them both. 

"This is a good life," Alex says. "Cute boyfriend. Hot sex with cute boyfriend. Nemesis to oppose, entourage to help with said opposition, paycheck coming in." 

"I thought we were more a posse than an entourage," John murmurs. "But I'm okay with being your cute boyfriend."

"Who said it was you?" Alex teases. John just kisses him until Alex is practically melting against him. 

"Okay," Alex says, "it's definitely you."

"That's right, baby girl," John tells him. 

"Am I baby girl now?" Alex asks. 

John shrugs, his shoulder bumping under Alex's head. "I'm making all of this up as I go."

"Well, you improvise like a jazz master," Alex tells him, yawning.

"We should get up," John says. His voice is honey-slow even to his own ears. "Eat some dinner. Go to the gym. Accomplish something."

"Just enjoy the afterglow for a minute," Alex says, patting John's chest. "It's the only time I ever slow down."

They lie there for a few minutes, holding each other. John can feel their breathing settle into sync. He rubs his cheek against Alex's forehead and Alex laughs softly. John's heart feels like it's grown three sizes; he could fit the world into his warm and luminous heart. There's room enough for Alex and every single one of his words, all the multitudes of him. Alex's phone buzzes. 

"Hold still," he says to John, and takes a picture of their two heads not even half on the pillow. 

"Who are you sending that to?" John asks.

"Just Angelica," Alex says. "She's going to go fucking nuts. By the way, she's basically part of our relationship."

"I figured," John says. "Is she going to go nuts in a good way?"

"Oh, yeah," Alex says. "She's wanted us to get together for months. Plus, she won the pool, which means she's taking us to dinner."

"Can't argue with that," John says. "Nice to have her in our corner."

"Mm," Alex agrees. "Nice to have her everywhere." He checks his phone and shows John a Snapchat of Angelica screaming with delight. 

"Come here," John says, and kisses Alex on the cheek. "Send her that one." 

They get dressed, only getting distracted a few times, and go to dinner with Angelica, who kisses them both and gives them starry-eyed looks over the plates of burgers and fries. 

"Tell me everything," she says. 

"What is there to tell?" Alex says. "Divine inspiration." He draws a lightning zigzag through the air with his finger. "Kaboom!"

"That sums it up," John says, holding Alex's hand under the table (not because he's scared, but because that lets him walk his fingers up Alex's leg, and also because he doesn't want to be part of one of those couples who can't keep their hands off each other in public, even if that's completely true). "Chick-a-plao."

"What does that even mean?" Angelica asks, laughing, and John shrugs.

"Sex scrambled his brain," Alex stage-whispers loud enough for most of the restaurant to hear. 

"Well, it's about time," Angelica says. 

John agrees. 

\+ + + + 

It's incredibly inconvenient that spring break comes so soon after they start ripping each other's clothes off, because John's already promised his family that he'd go to Jamaica, but he texts Alex from the resort. Alex's gift with words extends to sexting, which shouldn't be a surprise, John thinks, but he hides every time his phone buzzes, and his sisters roll their eyes. He steals moments alone in the bathroom, but no cold shower can quench his desire. He can't get back soon enough; Alex meets him at the airport driving John's car and they find the nearest park and make out in the back seat. 

Roch and Herc high five them when they find out, but the study group goes on the same as ever. It's not really what John expected, but having those hours set aside in his week really helps him stay on top of his work. He's glad and grateful that everyone else agrees. Papers pile up, but it's bearable to be writing next to Alex, each of them with their own notes to flip through. Even Burr at his separate desk in the corner doesn't bother them. 

Alex keeps posing when John and Luz need a model, which John thinks should be weird, but somehow it isn't. Luz doesn't seem to be into Alex, although they get along well. It's another story the time Alex talks Angelica into posing, and then Roch, but John can't blame them for their reaction to either one. He's got some attractive friends.

The best part of the semester is when Alex and John both line up summer jobs, doing menial labor in law offices. "The alumni association comes through again," Alex says, with only a tinge of wryness in his voice. "Oh, how nice, they're even willing to do flexible hours so we can take summer classes. Gosh, they must really believe we're the future of America."

"Take the money and run," John tells him. "None of them would do any less."

"He's right," Angelica says. She has an internship with the Congressional Hispanic Caucus Institute, which involved considerably more effort than a couple of emails. Alex practically crowed when he heard, as pleased as if he'd gotten it himself. "How do you think the rich get richer?"

"Your family would know," Alex says, and Angelica smiles. 

"Then believe that I know that I'm talking about," she says. 

Alex shrugs. "It's a start. And now we get to spend the summer together, and I don't have to worry about summer session tuition."

"Sounds perfect," John says, putting his arm around Alex. 

"Every campaign to storm the nation's capital begins with a single shot," Angelica intones, imitating one of the professors in the polisci department.

"I guess I'm not throwing away my shot, then," Alex says, leaning against John. 

They go apartment hunting with Angelica. "Two bedrooms is fine," they assure the landlords of their prospective homes, and let the landlords assume whatever they want. 

"This is it," John marvels as Alex has a spirited discussion about appropriate clauses in leases with the undeserving manager of the apartment complex they're looking at. "This is living."

"What were you doing before?" Angelica asks, laughing.

"Just passing time," John says, looking at Alex. 

"Yeah," Angelica says. "I get that." She's looking at Alex too, and there's a distant hunger in her eyes behind the fondness. "He does that to you. Makes you realize how much you were missing before. I mean, who else has a mind like that?"

"Definitely," John says. 

Angelica pokes him in the ribs. "I know you're not here for his brains, Laurens." She winks.

"I am!" John protests. "Just...also the rest of him."

"Mmhmm," Angelica says. "Good for you. Good for both of you."

John wonders, just for a moment, what might have been if he hadn't come along to catch Alex's eye, but it's too late for that. He reaches for Angelica's hand and pulls her close, kissing the top of her head. 

"Thanks," he says. 

"What for?" Angelica asks, leaning against him.

"Just thanks," John says. 

"Okay," she tells him.

Alex comes back, brandishing a lease that seems to have a lot crossed out, his eyes bright with victory. "Success!"

"What, did you talk him to death?" Angelica asks. 

"Only half to death," Alex says, pretending to be affronted. "I don't need new management coming in to screw up our sweet deal."

John can see the summer stretching out ahead of them in a shining vista. The future has never looked so bright.

"Hey," Alex says, and John looks over at him. "We still have to get through finals."

"How you say, 'No sweat'?" Angelica asks, exaggerating her usual accent. "You'll be fine. You've been through this once already. As long as you don't sleep through your alarms and Alex doesn't ignore the page limit on his essays, none of you will have any problems."

She's right, but it's a busy week. John and Alex manage to catch a few non-studying hours together, but mostly they're reading and writing and cramming two hundred years of American politics into their heads. Putting together a collection of drawings for his art final is a breath of air in a week full of writing. John flips through his portfolio of drawings for art class, looking at his sketches of Alex and Angelica and Roch and the models from class. He can almost see what his professor was saying: his drawings of Alex look different than the others. There's a little more life in them, a little more wistfulness. 

He scans them carefully, making sure not to smudge them, and uploads them to his professor's Dropbox. Then he puts the sketches away. Maybe later he'll frame them, or put them in a book. Memories of freshman year, to be laughed and sighed over later. 

Someone knocks at his door, and then Roch is calling, "Stop touching yourself and come to the bar! Or at least, invite us in!"

John laughs and grabs his wallet. "J'arrive!"

And just like that, it's over. They have emerged victorious from the quagmire of freshman year.


End file.
